by Jo Ann Wendt
"I've been just fine," he snapped.
She didn't want to be his doormat, but she didn't want to be his superior, either. What she wanted was to take her place at his side, as his wife, as his trusted comrade, his best friend.
In his changeable way, his cranky mood lifted a little, and he suddenly looked at her with bright, worried eyes. "What about you? Your leg is healed, isn't it?"
She smiled to assure him. "My leg is fine, Dove. There's a scar. There'll always be a scar. But a scar on the leg doesn't matter. A scar on the leg doesn't show. I suppose if-if-if-if a man wanted to marry me, it-it-it might be a different matter. A hus-husband might mind. About the scar." She gave him a scared look.
"Hell, no," he put in quickly, his eyes bright. "No, a husband wouldn't mind a bit. A scar on a leg wouldn't matter. Not to a husband. Not a bit."
It was such a wonderful thing to say that Jericho's heart began to pound. She waited for him to say more, but he flushed suddenly, which was peculiar for Dove. Oddly tongue- tied, he looked away. Aimless, he prowled the room, looking at things, touching things, picking up this and that, as if Angelina's refurbished parlor were suddenly of intense interest to him.
She felt suddenly tongue-tied, too. It was a strange way to feel with Dove. One thing she and Dove had always shared easily was talk. The uncomfortable silence lengthened unbearably. Outside, the cold November rain drizzled down. On the hearth, the fire crackled and popped. From the downstairs kitchen came the faint, happy sounds of servant merriment, the servants enjoying their wedding feast.
He glanced at her with bright eyes. "Marguerite is going back to France. She decided this morning."
Jericho's heart stopped. Going back to France? What did it mean? She didn't know whether to rejoice or grieve. Was Dove going, too?
"She . . . broke our betrothal this morning. She said she . . ." Roaming the room in a self-conscious, resdess way, he lifted the edge of a gilded leather wall hanging, peered at it, then let it slap back against the wall. "She . . . decided we weren't suited after all."
"She-she-she did?" Jericho's heart began a slow upward pounding.
He threw her an annoyed look. "Is that all you can say about it? Just 'she-she-she did'?"
Jericho touched her flushed cheeks with the backs of her hands to calm herself.
"I mean, Marguerite must be very upset."
He shrugged. "How upset can you be, returning to France with a betrothal settlement of fifty thousand pounds in your purse? Besides . . ." He became very busy examining a figurine. His voice fell. "It seems there's been . . . someone else all along. Someone waiting in the wings. A titled but penniless Frenchman. Well, he won't be penniless now, not with my fifty thousand pounds."
"Dove, I'm sorry."
He squinted at her. "You're sorry?"
"Well, no. Marguerite wasn't right for you, Dove. She is a fine lady." A lie. "And-and she loved you with all her heart." Another lie. "But not half as much as-as-as-as-as— you deserve to be loved."
"I'm not sorry!" he said. "Hell, I'm only sorry I'm fifty thousand pounds out of pocket." He continued his prowl of the room, picking up objects, setting them down. She waited, breathless.
AT suppose I could marry someone else . .
4'Yes, you could, Dove, you could, you could. And-and- and I think you should. You should marry. A man should marry. Every man should settle down and marry. And-and- and-and have children."
"But, hell, with my fortune wiped out, I can't marry. I couldn't, in good conscience, ask a woman to share nothing.''
"Yes you could, yes you could," she argued breathlessly. "You could. A woman wouldn't mind, Dove. She wouldn't mind at all. If she loved you, a woman wouldn't mind if you didn't have a penny."
He banged down a porcelain figurine he'd picked up and glared at her. 44For God's sake, I'm not destitute! I've got my investments in New Amsterdam and in the Caribbean. I'm not reduced to eating gruel and dandelion greens."
"No, no, of course not," she agreed carefully, waiting.
With those bright hazel eyes he shot her a look that was as belligerant and vulnerable as a little boy's dame-school look. Eager to be loved and admired by the teacher, but ashamed to admit to such unmanly needs.
''Cousins sometimes marry," he said crossly.
"Yes, yes, they do, Dove, they do, cousins sometimes marry, cousins do. They do. Cousins do."
"But not," he said, continuing his prowl of the room, "in the Roman Catholic church."
Her heart sank to her feet. "Oh."
He glanced at her, his eyes bright. 44Unless, of course, a dispensation can be obtained from Rome."
"Is-is-is a dispensation diff-difficult to obtain?" She was getting dizzy, her heart constantly stopping and starting like this. She rested a protective hand on her waist, on her baby.
He shrugged without interest.4'It's not difficult at all. Hell, send a tub of money to Rome and you can get anything."
She waited, breathless, praying. Dove, ask me to marry you. Ask me. Ask us, ask me and your baby.
He gazed at her with those bright, intense eyes, opened his mouth to speak, then shut it, opened it, shut it. Plainly in a quandary, he raked a jeweled hand through his thick golden hair and resumed his prowl. A flush crept up his tanned throat. Jericho braced her hands on the gilded edge of An- gelina's settee. Suddenly, Dove wheeled around and gave her the crankiest look yet.
"Hell's bells, Jericho! If you think I'm going to stand here and court my own bondslave, you'd better think again."
"Dove, I'm not a bondslave."
"It's damned embarrassing. It's downright humilitating. Do you know how humiliating it is for a man to wake up one morning and discover he's in love with his own bondslave? His bondslave, for God's sake? And worse, to suddenly realize he's probably been half in love with her from the start, back when she was a scrawny brat, giving him arrowheads? Do you know how damned embarrassing that is? Do you?" he demanded.
In love with her! She felt lightheaded. Dove was in love with her. And he had been from the very first. It had never been Mrs. Verplanck. It had never even been Marguerite. It had been her—Jericho, Pansy Eyes, grubworm. She wanted to soar, fly.
But somehow, she managed, "Dove, I'm not a bondslave."
"Hell, when I tell Raven and Lark I'm marrying my own bondslave, they'll laugh their heads off. And my friends will laugh."
"Dove, I'm not a bondslave."
He gestured. "And when Whitehall Palace gets wind of this? Lord Dove de Mont marrying his bondslave? I'll be the joke of the court. I can already hear Castlemayne and Nell Gwynne giggling. I can already hear the king laughing."
"Dove, I'm not a bondslave." Her temper was rising.
He didn't even hear. But, having vented his own temper, his mood changed and he came bounding across the room with a sweet smile and took her into his arms.
"Get into warm clothes, sweeting. Aubrey or no Aubrey, I'm taking you to Arleigh Castle. We'll be married today. If the priest won't marry us, we'll marry by Protestant clergy, then marry again, Catholic, when the dispensation arrives."
"Dove, I'm not a bondslave."
"In the meantime, I'll deal with Uncle Aubrey. He's got no right to keep you from me. He might be your father, but,
hell! You belonged to me long before you belonged to him. I won you at dice, and that's more than he can say for himself. You belong to me. Now get dressed, beauty." He kissed her. "Can't you see I love you? Can't you see I want you with me for the rest of my life?"
It took every ounce of Jericho's willpower to resist that sweet, bullying speech. But she managed it.
"Dove, I am not a bondslave."
"Yes, yes." Humoring her, he brushed the argument away.
"And you did not yet ask me to marry you."
That stopped him in his tracks. "Ask?" He blinked, his handsome mouth lax. "What do you mean, 'ask'?"
"Just that, Dove. When you betrothed yourself to Lady Marguerite, you didn't just tell her you were going to marry her,
did you?"
"Well, of course not," he said, affronted, his smooth, tanned brow crinkling in annoyance. "I asked her."
"That's what I want. I want to be asked."
He breathed through his mouth for long moments.
"Jericho, don't be ridiculous."
"I'm not ridiculous."
"You are. Jericho, you're vexing me!"
She was a woman in love. But she was also a woman who'd learned to value herself. And if the man she loved didn't value her now, at the very moment of proposal, he never would. If she let him order her about, treat her like a lackey, she would be a lackey in his eyes forever.
"Thank you, Dove, for your kind offer of marriage. I truly appreciate it and I will think about it."
His mouth fell open. "Think about it? What the hell is there to think about? You've wanted to many me ever since you were a snot-nosed little brat of eleven. Hell's bells, in New Amsterdam you went tooting all over the settlement with your fat friend, Martha, embarrassing me—"
"Maritje."
"—telling everyone—telling God, the whole world and all the fish at sea—that you were betrothed to me. Betrothed, for God's sake. I wanted to break your neck."
"Nevertheless, I want to think about it."
Her heart pounded. Denying Dove was the hardest, most frightening thing she'd ever had to do in her life.
He stared at her in utter disbelief. Then, in his lightning quick way, his mood changed. She saw the enormous flash of hurt.
"Is it John?" he demanded. "It's John, isn't it?"
"No, Dove, ~ho. It isn't John."
"Then it's someone Aubrey has picked out!"
"No, Dove, no. There's no one. Dove, I just want time to consider your offer. Give me a week."
A week? She would die waiting a week. She longed to marry now, right this minute. The priest was still in the house. She longed to throw herself into Dove's arms and shout: Dove! We're going to have a baby. Isn't it wonderful?
He gazed at her, stunned afresh, as if he'd never before considered that she might not want to marry him. Then, like a spoiled child, he covered his hurt feelings with curtness.
"Take all the time you want," he snapped. "Take a week, take a month, take a year. Hell, get back to me on the subject in a decade or two, if you want. I'm in no hurry! Hell, women are more bother than they're worth."
Wheeling, he strode for the door.
"Dove, I only want to be asked."
"I askedl You didn't listen."
He left, slamming the door behind him. The slam reverberated through the room, rattling alabaster eggs in a silver bowl, making a log collapse in the crackling fire.
"Dove," she whispered.
She pressed her lips together and wrung her hands. She fought the urge to run after him. But if she ran after him, what sort of marriage would it be, with Dove walking all over her? A one-sided marriage. No sort of marriage at all.
"We'll wait," she told her baby. "Don't worry!"
But Jericho did worry and couldn't wait. A week? She couldn't wait even two days. On the second day, she penned a loving letter to Dove and sent it by messenger to Arleigh Castle. Then she spent the day wringing her hands, waiting for Dove to come fetch her.
But he didn't come. Instead, to her bewilderment, the
messenger returned with her own unopened letter. He also brought an accompanying letter from Lady de Mont. Jericho broke the seal and frantically tore it open.
My dear Lady Jericho,
I regret to tell you that Dove has left England. He has gone to the New World to oversee his investments in New Amsterdam, that is, in the New York. He expects to reside in the New York for the next two years. I trust this news is as puzzling and distressing to you as it is to me?
In Warmest Friendship, Glynden d'Orias
Dazed, Jericho looked up and stared blankly out the window at the bleak November drizzle. She had gambled. And lost.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Jericho nagged and badgered her father for three months before Lord Aubrey finally threw up his hands and gave her permission to sail.
So it was already a fine spring day in late May before John and Jericho sailed into New York harbor, and by then Jericho was so big with child that she had to cling to John for dear life as he helped her down the ship's gangplank. When they stepped onto the old familiar wharf, John threw her a teasing smile.
"I'll give you one last chance to say yes. I warn you, I won't ask again."
Jericho grinned back at him. "You're a worse liar than Dove. You don't want to many a great-bellied woman. What's more, I don't believe you made this journey just for me. You've been itching to get back here ever since you heard that Lizzie is now a widow."
John shrugged happily. "That. And I confess I'm eager to see Dove. I've missed that son-of-a-bitch."
"So have I."
John's mouth curved in amusement. "An understatement, if ever I did hear one."
Smiling, she let her excited anxious gaze sweep the busy wharf, the bustling familiar settlement. New York! It was all so beloved. The smell of the pine forest. The screech of the windmill. The wolfheads grinning in neat tidy rows on cottage walls. There was even a Mohawk canoe on the river, traveling gunnel deep, loaded with spring furs.
Excited, she continued to smile until her back gave a sharp twinge. Then she gasped and slipped a supporting hand to the small of her back.
"Well, it's certain I had best marry somebody. And today. If this baby is to be born with a father."
"Good lord. Are you starting?"
She nodded happily.
"Jericho, drat you! Whyn't you tell me?"
"Because," she said sensibly, "you would not have let me off the ship. Now, stop fussing. These are only preliminary twinges."
"Preliminary! Jericho—"
Brushing his objections aside, she plowed across the wharf like a waddling fat lady and inquired of Lord Dove de Mont's whereabouts from the first porter she could buttonhole.
"You're a vexing woman, do you know that?" John said a few minutes later, as he settled her on the sunny wooden step on the stoop of Dieter Ten Boom's old tap house.
She kissed his cheek. "Please, John? Do it my way?"
He sighed and with a long-suffering look trudged into the tap house. Jericho waited in excitement. Dice cups rattled. Skittles boards banged. Men whooped and hollered and crowed. She glanced down at the old wooden step she sat on and realized with a ripple of surprise that it was the same step she'd sat on, her very first day in New Amsterdam, ten years ago. The step was worn now, concave, shaped by a decade of men's boots tramping in and out of the tap house. She stroked it. The grain was smooth as silk. Baking in the spring sunshine, warmth rose from the wood. Memories rose, too.
When a Gabriel's horn blew mellowly, the lovely sound echoing upon the canal, announcing the cows' return from pasture outside the Wall, she had the strange feeling that time had whirled backwards, that she was eleven years old again, sitting on this step—tired, hungry, scared—wondering whom she would belong to when the noisy roistering games in the tap house came to an end. The memory was painful. And so vivid, that when she glanced up and saw a dog trotting toward her, she almost cried out.
Pax!
But it wasn't Pax. It was only a homely puppy. He had the neglected look of a stray—skinny, his coat matted. He halted and cocked his head at her. When her heart stopped pounding, she held out her hand. He came bounding happily and licked it. Tail swishing, he tried to lick her face.
"Don't you belong to anybody, boy? Well, you do now. If you want to, you can belong to me. I'll keep you. I promise. I promise I'll keep you forever."
Stepping into the tap house, John, too, felt the queer kick of deja vu. As if time had moved backwards. It was almost as if he were eighteen years old again, stepping into the tap house with Dove on their birthday, eager to celebrate the day with a stolen kiss in the kitchen. Lizzie didn't serve here anymore. This was Samuels's tap house. But everything else was t
he same.
He swept the ramshackle room with a glance and saw Dove at the far end of the room, sitting at table, playing cards. John smiled in begrudged amusement. The beloved son-of- a-bitch. As always, Dove was as impeccably groomed as a prince. His thick thatch of golden hair tumbled to his shoulders, catching the sunlight from the window and shining. His shirt was white linen, spotless and without wrinkle. He wore a gold and ruby ring on one tanned hand.
John started across the room. He was halfway there when Dove suddenly looked up. The bright hazel eyes flashed with surprise, then with wariness. The handsome mouth tightened. Closing his fanned cards, Dove set them down warily.
John halted, wary too. Unsure of what Dove was feeling, unsure of his own feelings. For an instant, John feared it was too late. Feared they'd waited too long to mend their torn fences. But it was Dove who'd always been quick to lose his temper, quicker to forgive, and it was Dove now who sprang first. Before John could take a step, Dove sprang out of his chair, came leaping across the room and embraced him.
They embraced roughly, awkwardly, the way men do when they love each other but are ashamed to show it. They thumped each other on the back, then gripped shoulders. Their eyes met in emotion. A lot of water had gone under the bridge. There was a lot that needed forgiving and forgetting. But the overriding emotion was love. They embraced roughly again.
"What news from England?" Dove demanded, sweeping him to his table and signaling the serving girl for beer. "Is —everyone well?"
John smiled at Dove's jerky pause. "Everyone" meant Jericho, of course. He could see it. Those bright hazel eyes shone with the urgent need to know. The other card players at the table cleared out, granting them privacy. When the beer came, they settled down to talk.
"Everyone's fine, Dove. Everyone you know and love's in the best of health." John deliberately ticked off Dove's relatives one by one, giving a slow account of each, giving the news. Dove fidgeted, hardly able to sit still for the recitation. He wanted news of Jericho. Savoring it, John made Dove wait, drawing out the news, then finally said:
"Jericho's fine, too."